


If That Mockingbird Don't Sing

by anthologia



Series: Age Reversal [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman Beyond, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Blood Loss, Clinging, Dick Grayson likes hugs okay, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Intrusive Thoughts, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Restraints, Scarification, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthologia/pseuds/anthologia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be over. People don’t – even Ra’s, who likes to think he knows everything, they don’t understand that the explosion that destroyed that warehouse wasn’t the Joker’s last fuck you. Oh, he wired the place, had it all ready just in case, but he was dead by the time everything went up in flames, his mouth still frozen on his last words – that wasn’t funny. No. It wasn’t him. It was Tim who set it off, cleansed the world of the Joker and Harley and their broken, fake house in their broken, fake world and their broken, fake son. That was supposed to be the end.</p><p>Age Reversal AU, in which Tim is the Robin who dies and is reborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story no one asked for about the Tim who appeared in the end of Convergence: Once Upon a Time, written for my h/c bingo card prompt "lost childhood" (although it sort of meandered away from that, so I'm still trying to decide if I'll keep it or write something else). I'm trying to keep this rooted in Tim's story and not Jason's cut-and-pasted, so I've borrowed some elements from the Batman Beyond Return of the Joker movie and later DC Comics Tim stories.
> 
> Content warnings: references to death and torture of a minor; suicide; self-mutilation; and a generally unstable POV character.

The thing is. The thing is, the smile – the one he’ll wear forever, the one that makes people flinch, stare at him out of the corners of their eyes and wonder _how? why?_ – it shouldn’t still exist. The Pit washes away all sins indiscriminately. When Tim emerged from it, glowing and new _,_ his skin was pure, unmarked. Like a kid again, before he ever got caught up in Batman’s crusade. Just a child.

It was a lie, it was _such_ a fucking lie, that Tim – prince of lies, master of lies, king of _oh, I’m fine; I’m used to it; I don’t mind anymore_ – can’t stand to look at himself in the mirror. He pockets a knife from a training session with one of Ra’s assassins one night. That makes it so much easier, the night Prudence comes to his room and finds him splitting his cheeks open into a terrible grin and choking on the laughter and the blood that spills out of his mouth. But the truth is, he would have done anything, sliced himself with a butter knife over and over until it finally sank in, just so he wouldn’t have to look at that stupid, fucking _perfect_ skin anymore.

He dreams about it, that night, _all the time_. Sometimes it feels like he never left – he’s still _there_ , with Joker and Harley and their grotesque pantomime of a family, Jack and Janet Drake’s bodies rotting in the section of dirt marked out for Harley’s garden. Your parents are dead, kid; long live your parents. Mommy’s going to be _so_ pleased with her flowers this year.

It was supposed to be _over_. People don’t – even Ra’s, who likes to think he knows everything, they don’t understand that the explosion that destroyed that warehouse wasn’t the Joker’s last fuck you. Oh, he wired the place, had it all ready just in case, but he was dead by the time everything went up in flames, his mouth still frozen on his last words – _that wasn’t funny_. No. It wasn’t him. It was Tim who set it off, cleansed the world of the Joker and Harley and their broken, fake house in their broken, fake world and their broken, fake son. That was supposed to be the end.

But no, he had an encore to perform. His death was just an intermission before the curtains went up again and the next act began with Timothy Jackson Drake _(rest in peace)_ crawling his way out of the grave. He learns new roles from the League of Assassins, tries on new masks. He hasn’t decided yet which one fits when Ra’s shows him pictures of the new Robin. Ra’s expects something, maybe anger or a final break that splinters Tim from the Bats forever, but Robin was always a hereditary name. Tim wasn’t the first; he isn’t the last. There are many things Tim has to be mad about, _livid_ about, burning through the cracks of his mind like lava, but this is not one of them. He looks at them quietly, memorizes the face behind the domino, and feels the tug of _home_. Go west, young man. So he gathers up his things and says goodbye; not thank you, because Ra’s would rather be owed a debt than given gratitude, and Tim knows his time with the League was never for his benefit.

He’s barely been back a few weeks before the circus comes to town. Tim used to love it, because one of the few things his parents did with him was taking him to see the circus. Tonight, he’s there to investigate some links between Haly’s Circus and some of the more ruthless criminal elements of Gotham, but he chooses the wrong night, the night the Flying Graysons spread their wings that one last time and plummet to their deaths. It’s too late, stupid fucking _useless._ The best Tim can do is make sure their child doesn’t go down with them.

Dick’s so lost in shock and grief that he barely even questions being taken away. It’s for the best, really. Tim’s not even sure what he’s doing. He can’t take care of a child; Tim may be crazy, but he’s not _delusional_. What would he know about being family to a kid? All he ever had were the occasional phone call when his parents remembered him and the laughter that still echoes in his head. So he takes Dick to the closest thing to a family he knows of.

By the time he gets to Wayne Manor, Dick’s exhausted and half-asleep, having cried himself out. Tim has to carry him out of the Redbird and to the door. He hesitates before ringing the doorbell – his fingers flinch away, but he laughs at himself ( _what are you afraid of, Junior?_ ) and uses his free hand to peel off the mask that obscures his features, the one he used to attend the performance that night unnoticed. He’ll do this as himself or not at all. Let them _see_ what became of their bird. Go big or go the fuck _home_.

When the door opens, he almost laughs again. The way the old man’s face goes from polite interest to shock in an instant, the pale tint to his skin that almost matches the one Tim had before the Pit washed it away. It’s _funny_ , isn’t it? In an awful way.

“Oh my word – Master Tim?”

Tim smiles his grotesque smile. “Hey, Alfred. Long time, no see.” He shifts his hold on Dick a little, turns the sleeping kid so the butler can see him – his young face mashed up against Tim’s chest, tear streaks still visible on his cheeks. “I brought you a present.”


	2. Chapter 2

Damian knows it immediately, of course. He takes one look at Tim, the way he moves now, and his lips thin. “You’ve been with my grandfather.”

Tim shrugs. “He always liked me. To a frankly creepy and inappropriate degree, but I never got around to pointing it out. Guess it worked out in my favor in the end though, didn’t it?”

It may be unwarranted, the things spilling out of his mouth, but he gets a certain vicious satisfaction from twisting the blade that is his death and resurrection. Bruce in particular has a certain broken look behind his eyes that started when he first saw the grotesque pantomime that is Timothy Drake, standing and walking and smiling, this escapee from the grave. Throwing it in their faces may be cruel, but it’s honest.

“How long?” Bruce asks. “How long have you been… alive?”

“Couple years, give or take. But we’re not here to talk about me.” Tim points to the door Alfred used when he took Dick upstairs to find him a bed. It took a while to extract him from Tim’s arms, because apparently Dick is a _clinger_ , even when he’s barely conscious. “We’re here for him.”

“You can’t just drop him off with us, Tim. You have to at least let child services look for family.”

Tim snorts. “I know I lost some brain cells when I died, B, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. He wasn’t safe where he was. Let him sleep here tonight, let child services do their pointless search, then take him in. His parents were murdered tonight. He needs a place to stay and people who know what that’s like.” He can see it, the moment when Dick gets his hooks in Bruce without even being in the room. It took even less time than he thought it would – but then, Bruce is like that about kids now, isn’t he? Tim practically had to _beg_ him to be allowed in after Damian broke away, and now he’s picking up kids left and right. “Well, it’s been nice, having this reunion and everything, but I’m going now.”

Damian’s hand snaps out and grabs hold of his arm before even Bruce can react. Tim narrows his eyes. “Damian. Let go of me.”

“Timothy. You cannot expect us to simply _let you leave_.”

“Oh, it’s Timothy _now?_ ” For old time’s sake, Tim shakes off the hand on his arm instead of _breaking_ it off. Besides, if they get into a fight here, they might wake Dick up. Poor circus baby’s going to have enough problems without finding two League-trained former Robins having it out. “When did I graduate from ‘Drake’? Don’t pretend you ever _cared_.”

The new Robin picks that moment to waltz in and freezes, staring openly at Tim. It’s actually kind of refreshing, the way he wears his shock proudly instead of trying to hide it, the easy way Tim can read the slight widening of his eyes when he realizes who Tim is. The kid looks to Damian for help, and Damian takes a tiny step, shifting so he’s between Tim and Jason _just in case_ , and something in Tim’s chest tears open. The hysterical laughter comes out easy – like breathing, like a lungful of fresh oxygen after so much stale air.

“You finally figured out how to be a brother. Well, congratulations. I always knew you had it in you, deep down _somewhere_.” Coming here was a mistake. He should have just handed Dick to Alfred and left, set Dick down on their doorstep like an abandoned baby. But he stayed to chat. Stupid. Now he knows what Ra’s was trying to tap into – this well of anger and bitterness that slams into him like a tidal wave. And it’s crawling in his brain, poisonous tendrils snaking out towards Jason, who hasn’t done anything (yet) but remind Tim of one more thing he never got to have in life, a _real_ older brother who looked out for you instead of resenting you for taking his place. He has to get out of here, _leave_ before it comes spilling out through the clumsily stitched-together seams of his psyche. “Be _his_ brother now.”

He does feel bad for the setting off a stun grenade in the Manor – Alfred’s going to be _pissed_ – but he and Dick are far enough away that they should be fine. By the time Damian, Bruce and Jason recover, he’s already gone, letting himself into the Cave while they head for the most obvious exits out of the Manor. Alfred coming down to find out what happened might buy him a little more time in the confusion.

Tim works quickly, efficiently, knocking out the monitoring systems that would normally alert Bruce that someone is coming in through one of the entrances. He’s frozen for only a brief moment at the memorial case that holds his costume before he heads down one of the lesser-used entrances to the Cave. He’s going to have to abandon the car, but he can get a new one. Maybe it didn’t go as well as he wanted, but Dick’s safe, Tim’s free and clear, and he even picked up a souvenir.

Not a bad night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Where were you?"

“Tim?” that oh-so-familiar voice says, and Tim freezes. He’s not here. He’s dead, he’s a shadow. “It _is_ you, isn’t it? They told me you were alive. I didn’t believe them, you – “ There’s a strong, firm hand on his shoulder, turning him around, and Tim wants so badly to empty himself out, become a lifeless shell, _anything_ so he doesn’t have to look into those blue eyes or feel the palm splayed against his chest. “Your heart beats differently.”

 _It’s not the same heart_ , he wants to say. That one broke years ago, shattered into tiny pieces and crushed under the Joker’s boot like so much glass.

Kon bites his lip and takes Tim’s hand in his own, traces the skin of his palm delicately, like it’s made of glass. “Could you – would you take off the mask, please?”

No. He’s stone. He has no eyes, no ears, no heart; even if he could hear or see anything, he wouldn’t be able to feel the hurt. Tim has to – _there is no Tim_. There is no Robin reaching out for his Clone Boy, there’s just a Hood. He’s haunting this story, he’s not a participant.

“ _God_ , I – “ Kon rests his forehead lightly against the red material between them. “Okay. We don’t have to do that yet. Just. Just talk to me, okay? Let me know you’re in there. Just say something.”

And the words are so much acid in his mouth, blood dripping down his throat. “Where were you?”

The fingers around his hand tighten. “Where was I…?”

“You _said_ you’d listen for my voice, if I ever needed you. I s _creamed_ for you and you weren’t, you didn’t come. You weren’t _there_. Where were you?”

“Oh god, _Tim_.” Kon’s projecting the need to hold him so loudly that Tim could sense it even if he really was made of stone, but he won’t move any closer unless Tim gives him permission. He doesn’t. “Tim, I didn’t – I didn’t _know._ I wasn’t on the planet, I was on a mission with the Titans. They told me what happened when I got back, and I – “

If Tim closes his eyes, he can picture it. The way Kon’s face would have looked, the devastation.

“I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there and you _needed me_ , oh god Tim I can’t – I’m so _sorry_ , you have no idea how much I’ve hated myself for not being there for you.” He’s crying, broken and open and _perfect_ , and Tim’s chest aches with the need to do _something_ but there’s barbed wire around his heart holding him back. “I can’t – there’s no way to make up for that, I can’t fix it, but I – is there anything…?”

“No,” Tim whispers, throat aching from the lump he has to swallow past. “There’s nothing.” There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing left of us. There’s nothing we can build on. “You should go.”

“ _Tim._ ” Kon’s hands hover in the air less than an inch away, shaking slightly from the effort it takes to keep them from connecting. “Please. I can’t. I can’t _lose_ you again. Don’t – I _love_ you, you’re always going to be – I’m always going to love you. Don’t make me lose you again.”

 _I love you, too. You’ll always be my Clone Boy._ But Tim’s heart is strangled, barbed wire and land mines, and he c _an’t_. “Please. Just go.”

For a second, Kon doesn’t move, just – breathes. And then he takes Tim’s hand again and squeezes. “You’ll always be mine, my Robin, Tim. That’s never going to change, no matter what else happens.” He waits a few breaths longer, holding onto the desperate hope that Tim will stop him, before letting go and flying away.

And Tim stands where he is, doesn’t move until the barbed wire around his heart loosens enough to breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Think of it as…” His lips curl up into what could almost be a soft smile if it wasn’t for the jagged edges of his mouth where it connects to the scars. “…a promise. That Harvey’s not going to hurt any Robins ever again. That none of them are going to be hurting Robins ever again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Tim, have some angst. Birthday angst is a thing, right?

It’s concerningly easy to sneak into the Tower housing the latest generation of heroes, even if it is ultimately to Tim’s benefit. Most of the Titans staying overnight have already gone to sleep, so he doesn’t have to worry much about being interrupted before he has a chance to talk with his target.

“Hey, kiddo. How’s life?”

Jason’s still awake – of course he is, he’s a Bat. He tenses up when he looks at Tim, eyes flicking towards the exits in the room. “What are you doing here?”

“Just saying hi. Looking around the Tower. It’s changed some since I was a Titan. The statues are a nice touch. Depressing.” Maybe not as bad as the memorial case Bruce keeps in the Batcave, but still pretty bad. You’d think seeing yourself immortalized in stone would be nice, like proof that people cared, but it just makes him feel more dead.

“I’m calling B.”

Jason’s going to be pretty formidable when he finishes growing, but right now, right here, he’s still a kid, and it’s pretty easy to snag the comm out of his hand. “Don’t. I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just want to talk.”

Jason narrows his eyes, clearly not buying it. “About what?”

“You. Robin. I brought you a present, actually.” Tim pulls it out of his back pocket and tosses it to Jason, who catches it automatically. Good. Tim’s stunt with the flash grenade hasn’t ruined things enough that he thinks Tim would throw him a bomb or anything.

Jason stares at the coin in his hand for a second. “What…?”

“B ever tell you about the time Harvey Dent beat the hell out of Damian?” Tim takes a couple steps forward. “It was… bad. He was hospitalized for a while. Almost got banned from being Robin.”

“I know,” Jason mutters. “He tried some stuff with me and B the first time we went out. Where’d you get his coin?”

“Think of it as…” His lips curl up into what could almost be a soft smile if it wasn’t for the jagged edges of his mouth where it connects to the scars. “…a promise. That Harvey’s not going to hurt any Robins ever again. That _none of them_ are going to be hurting Robins ever again.”

Jason tightens his hand around the coin. “You really are the guy who’s been going around killing criminals, aren’t you. The Red Hood? Damian said you were, but B didn’t want to believe it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Batman won’t. And he shouldn’t.” Another thing Ra’s never quite understood. He’d wanted Tim to be hurt, lash out at Bruce’s tactics for not being strong enough, harsh enough to save him from the Joker, but Tim _understands._ Gotham needs a protector that still believes in a better way, because the city’s already drowning in the ones who don’t.

It’s just that it needs someone willing to step past that line, too, and Tim... he can _be_ that person. He opens his mouth to explain, but –

“Tim…?”

Tim knew that Wonder Girl and Superboy have been mentoring this batch of Titans, but Kon is supposed to be in _Kansas_ , not – not here. Kon has the look on his face, the one people get when they see Tim’s smile for the first time and aren’t sure yet if what they’re feeling is pity or disgust, and right now Tim can’t think of anything he’s ever hated more. This is the _one fucking thing_ he’d wanted to keep for himself, that still-unbroken memory of Robin and Superboy, and already it’s leaking the blood that poisons most of his memories these days.

Instead of staying and dealing with it, he runs like a coward. The glass windows at this level of the Tower are normally impossible to open and incredibly strong, but Tim had tossed a little pellet of hydrofluoric acid at the same time he threw Jason the coin. It hasn’t had nearly as much time as he’d planned for it to eat away at the glass, but it created a weak spot that he can exploit. The smoke grenade he uses to distract Kon and Jason and cover his exit is a little cliché, but it grants him enough time to smash through the window and leap.

He has plans for this, too, a glider hidden in his cape, but his fall ends abruptly. Kon recovered faster than Tim hoped he would and caught him in his TTK field. It feels exactly like he remembers – warm and a little tingly, like being wrapped up in a blanket made of sunshine, and he wants to claw off his own skin to get away from it.

But he can’t move, kept suspended in the air while Kon floats down to meet him. “Don’t,” Tim says, pre-emptively. “Just let me go, Kon.”

“I can’t do that, Tim.” Once he’s level with Tim, Kon stills. “I can’t, okay? I _can’t_.”

“Sure you can.” He keeps his face carefully blank, not letting anything show. “Just stop trying to hold on.”

Kon’s hand drifts towards the smile carved into his face and stops only when Tim flinches. “Tim, just – Let us help you. I don’t know what’s going on in your head right now, but I know it’s gotta be some fucked-up mess. Cassie, Bart, and I, and your family – we can _help_.”

And Tim _wants_ to laugh, he does, but if he lets himself, he’s not sure whose laughter is going to come out – Tim Drake’s, or JJ’s, and he can’t risk it right now. “This is way beyond your pay grade, Kon.”

“I don’t care. Remember – when I found out Lex was one of my donors, and you _promised_ me you’d be there to help me deal with it? You said – “

“ – That someday I’d need help with something, and I knew you’d be there.” He’s crazy, not forgetful. And he could end this conversation, if he was willing to. All it would take is to let go of five little words: _but you weren’t, were you?_

He presses his lips together, holding them in.

“So let me be here. I want to be here for you.”

 _No. You don’t._ He wants to be there for Robin, but Robin is Jason Todd now. Tim’s not a bird anymore, he doesn’t _fly_. “Let me go. Kon, please.”

“Tim…” They’re descending, slowly, and Tim’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. When they touch ground, Kon reaches out again, but this time he makes contact, cradles the back of Tim’s head in his hand. “Think about it. Okay?” He flicks his gaze upwards. “And maybe don’t cause any more property damage to the Titans. Or freak out the kids.”

Despite himself, Tim snorts and feels something a little like his old amusement, genuine and sincere, tug at him, try to smooth out his sharp, serrated edges. “No promises.”

“Right.” There’s an awkward pause while Tim tries to decide what to say or if he should risk saying anything before Kon leans forward instead and presses a light kiss to his cheek, just at the edge of where Tim sliced himself open (connecting the dots, following the lines the Joker carved) – and Tim’s not sure if he can _breathe_ let alone use words. “I love you. Okay? I never stopped. I’m not going to stop. Just remember that.”

“ – Okay,” he finds himself echoing, even though it’s not at all what he meant to say. He should have had _something_ ready, something to remind Kon that the two of them isn’t going to work, that Kon should give up and move on, but when he looks for it, there’s nothing.

Kon gives him a smile, crooked and sad, before flying back up to Jason’s window, leaving Tim free to go, no hiding or running. This time.


	5. Chapter 5

He should have seen it coming, really. After he talked to Jason, he’d been avoiding the family, trying to stick to the shadowy edges of Gotham. He knows – they’ll want to talk to him, stop him, _fix_ him. What he didn’t predict was how much effort _Dick_ would put into the search, even when he isn’t supposed to be anywhere near the investigation. He’s still just a kid, too young to be Robin but too old to let himself be protected from the truth for his own good.

Tim doesn’t _officially_ have access to the communication channels the Bats use anymore, but that doesn’t stop him from hacking in and keeping an eye on things. He has a program set up with certain keywords to listen for and alert him about. Red Hood is one of them. Dick Grayson is another.

He’s halfway to a drug bust when his earpiece crackles to life, feeding him a call from Robin to the Spoiler.

“ – _find him anywhere. What if he ran away? Bruce and Damian are going to **kill** me.”_

 _“Calm down, grasshopper.”_ It still stings to hear Stephanie’s voice, even as a part of him is abstractly proud of her. When she’d taken some time off after the disaster with the gang wars in Gotham and the Black Mask, he wasn’t sure she was ever going to come back. But at some point while he was gone, she’d started running her own operation with the Black Canary and the Huntress, affectionately nicknamed the Birds of Prey. _“What happened?”_

_“I told him we could get ice cream if he’d just leave me alone long enough so I could finish my homework. I swear, I only turned my back on him for like a second at the store, he just disappeared.”_

Tim abruptly slides to a halt.

_“Is there anywhere he wanted to go? Somewhere you think he might run to?”_

_“ – He’s been really impatient about the Red Hood search,”_ Jason admits after a second.

Tim curses and runs through a list of the areas Bruce has pinned down as places he’s frequently spotted. He tries to keep up the appearance, showing up just enough that Bruce thinks he’s on the right track but not spending so much time in those places that it becomes an actual liability. The one closest to the little local ice cream shop the Wayne family used to frequent is about fifteen minutes away, and he launches himself off the rooftop, already en route.

_“Would he go looking for Tim himself?”_

_“Maybe. I dunno. He’s convinced the Red Hood’s safe. Doesn’t think we’re doing enough to find him.”_

_“Okay. I’m, like, ten minutes away. Do a sweep of the area, and I’ll be there soon.”_

The conversation goes silent, giving Tim all the opportunity in the world to drive himself crazy(er) trying to anticipate what kind of plan Dick could have. It’s sheer luck that lets him spot the kid on his way to the area the Red Hood supposedly frequents, his hands shoved into his pockets and head ducked down and partially covered under his hoodie. The street he’s on is fairly crowded, so Tim has to stop and ditch the hood, quickly apply the makeup that makes his facial scarring less noticeable. It’s a rush job and not that great, but he can’t risk losing Dick over attention to detail.

Dick doesn’t quite notice him until he’s directly in the kid’s path. Once he looks up, his eyes widen comically. Tim takes a breath, prepared to deliver a lecture on not running away from your guardians, but it’s derailed by the sudden cry of _Tim!_ and the ten-year-old cling-hugging him so tight it almost constricts his breathing. He stares down, somewhat bemused, and ruffles Dick’s hair. “ – Hey, Circus Baby.”

When he tries to carefully peel the kid away from him, Dick makes an unhappy noise and clings tighter. “You _left_ ,” he says, accusatory, and oh. _Oh_.

“Yeah,” Tim says, because what else is there to say? “I told you I was going to take you somewhere safe.”

“But I thought that was going to be with _you_.” The words are a little muffled from the way Dick has basically buried his face in Tim’s stomach. At least it means he can’t see the way Tim winces.

“Staying with me wouldn’t really be that safe,” he says, even though he’s pretty sure Dick’s not going to really understand. How could he explain the toxic, volatile mess that is his mind to a ten-year-old? “Let’s get you back to Jason.”

At least that gets Dick to move away just enough to look up at him, face scrunched up in confusion. “How’d you know I was out with Jason?”

“Deduction,” Tim says, because he’s not about to say _I’m spying on your foster family_. “I _was_ trained by Batman.”

Apparently, that’s all Dick needs. He renews his clinging, and all right, this is getting ridiculous. Dick’s strong, but he’s still just ten. Tim peels the kid off him and takes a firm hold of his hand. Dick responds by squeezing Tim’s fingers like he’s trying to break them, but that’s fine as long as Tim can get them moving back in the direction of the ice cream shop.

He’s actually quiet for a few blocks, to the point where Tim is kind of concerned. He’d be relieved when Dick finally starts talking again, except –

“Are you dangerous?”

“Yes.” The answer is immediate, not so much as a falter in Tim’s stride at the question.

“But you wouldn’t hurt me,” Dick says.

“Of course not.”

“ _Or_ Jason.”

“No.”

“Or Damian?”

Tim hesitates. It’s not like he’d _set out_ to do it, but… “Damian is… complicated.”

Dick wrinkles his nose. “He says the same thing about you.”

A snort. “He would.”

“Are you…” Dick’s pace slows as he peers up at Tim’s face. “Are you bad?”

“If I have to be.” The shop is in sight, and Tim starts the process of detaching Dick. “I want you to go inside, sit down, call Jason, and wait there until he comes to get you. And after that, you need to stop looking for me. Okay, Circus Baby?”

“No.”

“ _Dick_.” It feels surreal, trying to give Dick some kind of stern, parental glare, like he’s playing at being Bruce. Tim’s pretty sure his attempt at parental _is_ basically just how he imagines Bruce would look. God knows he didn’t get it from Jack or Janet Drake. “It’s not up for negotiation.”

Dick crosses his arms. “Not unless I get to talk to you again.”

“Dick…”

 _“Promise_.”

Tim sighs. “Fine. But _I’ll_ arrange it. No trying to get in contact on your own. It’s not safe.”

Dick eyes him doubtfully for a long moment before apparently deciding that’s good enough. He gives Tim another bone-crushing hug before running back to the shop, peeking back over his shoulder every so often.

Tim finds a place out-of-sight where he can keep an eye on the kid. A few minutes later, Jason comes exploding into the store, looking around frantically until he spots Dick. When Tim finally decides it’s safe to leave, Jason’s grabbed hold of Dick and is delivering an impassioned lecture about not running off again, ever. He turns.

“Hey, Tim.”

“Steph.”

She’s wearing the eggplant purple Spoiler costume; it doesn’t give much opportunity for seeing her face, but he can feel the way she’s studying him underneath it regardless. “You know B is looking for you.”

“I’m aware.”

“You could just talk to him.” He lets the corners of his lips quirk up at that suggestion. Steph sighs. “Okay, or not. Just… what are you _doing_ , Tim?”

“Making sure Dick got back safe.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She crosses her arms. “Killing people? The Tim I knew would have sooner bashed his own skull in with a brick.”

“The Tim you know died. There was a funeral.” It’s not even cruel, just stating facts. Timothy Jackson Drake is legally dead. His friends and family mourned. There’s a grave – Tim knows, he’s seen it. It’s empty, of course, but then it always had been. They never recovered his body from the Joker family home; at the time, they thought it was because not enough of him had survived the explosion. _Ha_.

“That’s a bullshit answer and you know it.”

“I don't know what else to tell you. It's the literal truth. Tim Drake _died_. His heart stopped beating. Shuffled off the mortal coil. Became an ex-person.”

“So if Tim’s dead, then who am I looking at right now?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.” And abruptly sweeps her legs out from under her. She should have seen it coming, but he’s not going to object to her negligence when it's in his favor. Once she’s down, he presses the advantage, gets her pinned down long enough to spray a little light sedative in her face. It won’t knock her out for long, but he just needs a minute or two to clear the area. Tim runs.

He doesn’t look back.


	6. Chapter 6

This is – bad. It’s a bad idea. But he’s shaking and exhausted and _cold_ , and he doesn’t know if he’s going to make it back to the safehouse on his own. Even if he does, he probably won’t be able to stitch himself up _and_ set up the blood transfusion he’s going to need from bleeding out this much. At some point between this moment and the one that would see him safe, he’d probably die.

(He considers letting it happen. He’s done it before. Maybe this time it would stick. Maybe that would be better for everyone.)

Instead, he licks his lips and takes in about as deep a breath as he can manage, under the circumstances. “Kon!”

For about half a minute, there’s nothing, and the doubt tugs at him, memories slicing into his thoughts (his arms strapped down, shredding his vocal chords just trying to make Kon _hear_ , oh _god_ Kon where are you? I need you, please, please, please, make it stop, _just make it stop_ –

_Where were you? I screamed for you and you didn’t come. **Where were you?** )_

But then there’s a burst of wind strong enough that it rocks Tim backwards, and Kon is directly in front of him, putting his hands on Tim’s shoulders, panic in his eyes. “Oh my god, Tim, what happened? That’s – that is a _lot_ of blood, Jesus. I’m taking you to a hospital. Or – _Alfred_. I’ll take you to Alfred.”

“No, Kon – “ Tim can already feel the warmth of Kon’s TK enveloping him, holding him safe, and for a second, he almost wants to just… let go, relax and let Kon take care of him. _Almost_. “I have a safehouse about a mile away. I can stitch this up myself, and I have blood packs ready to go, just – take me there.”

Kon hovers in the air for a second uncertainly. “Tim…”

“ _Please._ ”

They touch down at his safehouse in barely a minute. Kon’s still holding him as they go inside, doesn’t want to let go even when he sets Tim down gently on the bed. Tim’s going to bleed on the mattress and ruin it, but that’s fine. He’ll have to abandon this safehouse anyway, now that Kon knows where it is.

“Where do you keep your medical stuff?” Even when Kon’s moving away from him, he hasn’t let go with his TTK yet. It’s still brushing against his skin every few seconds, like it’s checking on him. Tim’s not even sure Kon’s doing it on purpose.

“Bathroom cabinet. Blood packs are in the mini-fridge.”

Kon doesn’t say anything while Tim works, just sits nearby. He uses his heat vision to sterilize the needle when Tim asks him and helps Tim when his fingers get too shaky to put in the last few stitches, but he’s almost unnervingly quiet until Tim’s finished and settled in with an IV replenishing the blood he lost.

“You can go now,” Tim says, and Kon clenches his jaw. “I’ll be fine from here. There’s no need for you to stick around.”

“I’m staying,” Kon says, like it’s decided. Like there was never any other option, and Tim feels an uncomfortable clench of – _something._ Not anger.

“I didn’t say you c _ould_.”

“Yeah, you did. You called for me.” There’s another little brush of TTK across the back of Tim’s hand. “Look, I know you’re doing some stuff here that’s… It’s something that we don’t need to talk about right now,” he says quickly, because Tim had opened his mouth, was about to say something. A defense, maybe. “I’m not going to tell Bruce you’re here. But I’m going to stay until I know you’re okay. That’s the trade-off.”

Tim presses his lips together. It’s… if he’s being honest with himself, he expected it. It’s part of why calling Kon in the first place was a last resort. Inviting him in, letting him have some claim to Tim again – it’s _dangerous_. But what Kon’s asking for is also… fair. “Okay,” he says, after a long moment.

Kon opens his mouth, shuts it. It’s obvious that he expected Tim to fight this, and he’s floundering for something to say now that he has his way. (Tim might have said it was cute, if he allowed himself to have those kinds of thoughts anymore.) “ – Good.”

If this was a few years ago, Tim would’ve invited him into the bed at this point. He could have settled in under the covers, let Kon wrap him in his arms and his TTK and gone to sleep knowing that he was absolutely safe. But it’s not a few years ago, and thinking like that is… dangerous. So Tim doesn’t say anything, doesn’t invite him any closer. He just stares silently up at the ceiling while Kon sits a few feet away, until the strain his body went through finally forces him to fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

The problem is: he has to wake up _sometime_. And he does it screaming, raking his fingernails over decaying flesh until something warm pins him in place. The leftover panic is worse like this, makes him feel like he’s struggling against the close confines of a coffin.

“Tim! Tim, man, you’re safe. It’s okay. Tim? Can you hear me?”

It clicks into focus then. _Kon_. Safe house. Bed. Tim grits his teeth and manages to snarl out, “Let me _go_.”

“Okay. Just don’t freak out again, okay?” Kon loosens his TTK around Tim slowly, until all that’s left is a whisper of the touch. Not holding him still anymore, just… there.

Tim just breathes for a few seconds, stares at the bloody scratches he tore in his arms. They’re not deep. That’s fine. “Get out.”

“What?”

“Get _out_ , Kon.” He doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the look on Kon’s face. “Get out of my safe house. Get out of my – just _go_.”

Instead of leaving (did Tim really expect him to? probably not), Kon takes a few steps forward, his gaze intent on Tim’s face. “What were you dreaming about?”

 _Death. Hell_. “It doesn’t matter.” He swipes a hand through his hair before running his thumb along one of the scratches, clearing off the excess blood. It’s his day for exsanguination, apparently.

“Tim, please. Just talk to me. Let me in for a second.” Kon reaches out for his hand, slowly, and Tim snags him by the wrist, twists it hard enough to break the bones on a human. It’s not enough to seriously hurt Kon, but it’s _enough_. Kon jerks his hand back immediately. “Okay, Jesus, I _get_ it. At least let me help you with your arms – “

“It’s not a negotiation, Kon. You came, you helped me, I’m alive. I’m okay. There’s nothing left for you to do.”

Kon presses a hand against his mouth and _laughs,_ in helpless gasps that make the scars on Tim’s face ache. “Nothing left for me to – that is such bullshit. And you are _so far_ from okay.”

It’s true, and he has enough sanity left in him to be able to admit that to himself. But. “That’s not your problem anymore.”

“ _Tim_.” Kon just shakes his head and reaches forward again to touch him. It’s stupid, particularly considering how Tim reacted the last time he tried to make physical contact, but Tim doesn’t lash out this time, just stiffens. Kon’s hand comes to rest gently against his cheek. “We’ve been over this before. I never stopped loving you. Like it or not, that’s not going to change. So _yeah_ , you’re hurting and that’s my problem because it’s _you_.”

“Kon. I’ve been trying to _tell_ you.” He was trained by Batman, the king of paranoia and preparation for unlikely circumstances. There are certain lessons that never go away. His hand closes around the little lead container of Kryptonite, coded to his fingerprint. It opens soundlessly; the effect is immediate. Kon’s skin drains of color in record time as he collapses to the floor. “The Tim you love died. I’m not him.”

Not him anymore, but there’s enough of that boy left that he feels sick with himself for doing this. His fingers dig into the scratches on his arm again, tearing them open further as he backs away, towards the window. Kon’s retching on the floor _(oh Junior, you’d make Daddy so proud)_ while Tim climbs out. He doesn’t look back, _can’t_ look back as he abandons Kon and the safe house in one go. The faster and farther he goes, the better off they’ll both be.


	8. Chapter 8

His head. Is. Sometimes it just gets _loud_ , like there’s all this background noise spilled over into his mind. There’s no reasonable trigger, he’s just – he’s doing something, drinking coffee, and then there it is, a string of disjointed thoughts tumbling through his head, making it hard to breathe.

Dick… isn’t supposed to be here, but he shows up at Tim’s door at half-past-ten in the morning. Tim noticed him shadowing him to his safe house a few days ago and figured that Dick might as well know the location of one of them in case something happened. That was… a bad idea. Because. Perimeter monitors say Dick is waiting at his door, and Tim is lying on the floor, sometimes ramming his head against it in an attempt to make it quiet down, just. Shut up. _Shut up shut up shut up._

He can’t leave Dick outside forever, though; this isn’t the safest place to be, and there’s a chance the kid’s here for an actual reason, like something’s wrong. So he forces himself to get up, disable the security measures and unlock the door. Dick takes no time rushing forward and knocking all the breath out of him with one of his ridiculously forceful ten-year-old hugs. Tim’s fingers clench reflexively, grabbing fistfuls of the kid’s shirt, before he makes himself let go. “Dick. What are you doing here?”

“I came here to see you,” Dick says, like this is obvious. Like it makes sense to visit the Red Hood just _because_.

“You can’t stay.”

Dick tilts his head upwards with that determined look in his eye that is someday going to make him a great Robin. “Why not?”

Because. Tim’s head is a minefield on his best days. He’s a criminal. He’s dangerous. “You just can’t. Does anyone even know you’re here?” Stupid question. No one would let Dick come here alone if they knew. “Call Alfred. Ask him to pick you up.”

“But I wanted to stay with you.” Dick shrugs off his backpack and holds it up. “Just for a couple hours? I brought you something.”

“Call. Alfred.” Tim grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his arm to keep himself on this side of sane. His thoughts are a writhing mess of snakes, and he can’t let any of their poisonous fangs reach Dick. “I won’t tell you again.”

“But…” He feels the kid’s disappointment stab through him like an actual knife, but it can’t change anything. “Can I at least give you my present?”

Blunt pressure, pain. His nails are too short to do any significant damage but he’ll probably have the little half-moon marks for at least a day at this rate. His mind is racing, pulling up every single thought he can’t have right now. How to break little-boy-bones, make it so that Dick never wants to come back again. _No shut up shut up shut up shut up –_ “Dick. You have. To _go_.”

And maybe Dick’s self-preservation instincts are finally kicking in, the snakes finally hissing loud enough to get his attention, but instead of backing away slowly, his gaze goes to Tim’s arm. “…Tim?”

“Richard. Come here.” And then Damian is in his doorway, and Tim has to choke down the hysterical laughter that wants to come out. Of course Damian is here. _Of course_ , because what else do they need to make this even worse? The only good thing is that now Tim has a direction he can shove Dick towards. Dick stumbles a little, mostly out of surprise, and Damian’s hand reaches out, whip-fast, to grab hold of his shoulder and drag him in close.

“Take him. Go home.”

Dick’s starting to tear up, and Tim doesn’t want to see but he can’t look away. The kid doesn’t understand; how could he? _Tim_ doesn’t even understand, and he’s living in the epicenter. “But. I just.”

“Richard.” Damian doesn’t take his eyes off Tim. “Pennyworth is waiting outside. Go join him.” Dick stares between the two of them, helpless and lost, before he leaves.

Tim braces himself. Damian doesn’t disappoint. The minute Dick’s out of sight, he leaps forward and lashes out, and Tim dodges the blow. “You know I can’t let you continue like this, Timothy.”

“ _Drake_ ,” Tim grits out. It’s almost a relief to be able to vent what’s going on in his head instead of keeping himself wrapped up all tight to protect someone else. “Call me by the right fucking name.”

“We know what the Red Hood has been doing.” There’s a blade in Damian’s hand, and Tim blindly grabs at a nearby lamp to throw at him. Of course it doesn’t hit, but it makes for an okay distraction.

“Really? It’s like you were trained by a detective or something.” Tim dives across the room. There’s a gun stashed nearby, but he bypasses it for now in favor of the bo staff.

“You’re not well.“

“What was your first fucking clue?!” Tim launches himself off a couch to buy himself a little bit more space. “Did you think I’d come back from the dead happy and healthy? Poltergeists aren’t known for their serenity of mind!”

Damian grits his teeth. “We could still help you. Father would – “

“ _Help_ me? Like you _helped_ me when I was Robin?” Tim counters another swing of Damian’s blade with his staff. “Did it ever occur to you that if you’d gotten your head out of your ass about being ‘replaced’ and tried to _help_ me on occasion, I might not have _died_?”

“ _Of course it did!_ ” Damian – actually stops attacking him for a second, breaths coming far heavier than they should even for their level of exertion. “You don’t think I regret what happened? If I’d just _trained_ you or agreed to patrol with you that night – I failed you. You were my brother, and I refused to accept you until it was too late.”

“I was your – “ That laugh from earlier is back in full force, squeezing its fingers around his gut, making it hard to breathe. “We weren’t family, Damian. I _wanted_ us to be. But hey – “ He spreads his hands. “I guess there’s room on my family tree for an assassin now. You’ll fit _right_ in with the crazy, murderous clown and psychotic psychiatrist.”

Damian… actually puts away his blade, and Tim’s frozen, not sure what to do. Because. This isn’t Damian, the one he knew. This isn’t _Robin_. “That clown was _not_ your father.”

“You don’t know.” _Our little JJ. Make us proud, sonny! Tell us the punchline!_ “What happened.”

“He recorded it. What he did to you.”

“It was destroyed in the explosion.”

“He’d backed it up.” Damian’s moving closer, slowly, and Tim’s not sure what to do with that information. If he should be readying for another attack or something else. “It was sent to us when the warehouse was destroyed.”

No. No. No. There’s blood rushing in his ears, the snakes hissing. “Did you. You watched it.”

“Father tried to keep it from me, but I broke past the encryption he placed on it.” Closer, close enough to touch. And Damian _does_ , extends a hand and rests it lightly against Tim’s shoulder. “I should have been there for you. I should have helped you. I should have _saved_ you instead of getting so lost in my anger that Father had found another Robin to replace me. I failed you.”

It’s everything Tim would have _loved_ to hear, back when he was a kid who looked up to Damian as the first Robin. He wishes he could send this moment back in a capsule to little Tim Drake, but he can’t. So he throws it in Damian’s face instead. “Fuck. _You_. Do you think it matters now? Does it make you feel better to think about what you _should have done?_ Like that makes you a good person?”

“You misunderstand.” Damian suddenly has Tim’s wrist in a grip that numbs his fingers, makes it hard to hold onto the staff. His other hand depresses the plunger on a little can of aerosol sedative, spraying a fine mist into Tim’s face. “I’m not apologizing, Timothy. I’m simply correcting my actions.”

Tim manages to get an elbow smashed against Damian’s nose, but he’s too dizzy to do much else. “Screw you.” His legs give out under him, and Damian takes on his weight, lowering him to the floor slowly.

 

A couple minutes later, he emerges from the safehouse, Timothy slung over his shoulder. Pennyworth is waiting for him in the car by the curb as requested, as is Richard, who panics at the sight of them.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“Hardly,” Damian mutters as he sets Timothy down on one of the seats, but thinks better of it when he glances up and sees the child’s face. “He will be fine. He’s just sleeping.” Once Timothy is secure, he can spare more of his attention on Richard. “Father and I will speak to you about your attempt to run away later.”

“I just wanted to – “

“ _Later_ , Richard.” He catches Pennyworth’s eye in the rear mirror. “Alfred. If you will return us to the Manor.”

“Of course, Master Damian.”


	9. Chapter 9

In the balance of things, he’s not surprised to wake up in restraints, or even that bothered. The thing that _really_ scrapes against his brain like the flat end of a knife on chalkboard is the little needle taped to his arm, pumping him full of venom _(sedative)_ to keep him sluggish and unable to escape.

(Whatever dose they’re using, _it’s not enough_.)

_(It’s time to take your medicine! Don’t you want to grow up big and strong, like daddy?)_

Dick is sitting nearby, spinning aimless circles in a rolling chair. He stops abruptly when he notices Tim’s awake. “Tim?”

“ _Get it out_.” His voice sounds hoarse and kind of horrifying, even to him; he can’t blame Dick for recoiling slightly at the sound.

“What?”

“The needle.” _(Look at that smile! You love looking just like your old man, don’t you, Junior?)_ He knows there’s no way he’s getting out of the high-grade restraints Bruce would have him in through brute force alone, but he yanks his arm against it anyway. Everything’s curving in on that IV line, like it has gravity of its own that’s warping the space around it. “Get it out.”

Dick hesitates. “I’m supposed to tell someone you’re awake.”

He yanks again. In some distant corner of his mind, he wonders if it’s possible to break his own arm like this. Probably. He can _feel_ every drip of poison going into his veins, weighing him down and eating through him inch by inch. “Get this _fucking thing_ out of me, _Dick!_ ”

The kid flinches, but he comes forward, hands shaking, and rips the needle out of his arm before darting back to his chair a safe distance away. He wasn’t very careful about it – Tim think part of the needle might have broken off in his arm – but it’s been defanged. That’s enough. He relaxes his arm slowly before turning his attention back to Dick.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, quiet and uncertain and a little scared, and Tim has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from breaking out into hysterical giggles at how completely inadequate that question is for encompassing this situation.

“You should go tell someone I’m awake,” he says, instead.

Dick hesitates again before scrambling out of his chair and sprinting for the stairs that lead to the Manor.

He expects Damian or Bruce to come back, maybe Alfred. Instead, a teenage girl comes into view: Cassandra Cain. The new Batgirl, the one he hadn’t had a chance to meet yet. She doesn’t say anything to him, just perches on the chair Dick abandoned and stares at him steadily.

“I’d shake your hand, but I’m a little – “ He stops. No. Where’s your sense of _originality_ , Junior. This isn’t the little jokester we raised. “What did they send you down for?”

“Didn’t,” she says.

He considers the literal meaning of her answer for a moment before amending: “So what did _you_ send you down for?”

“Wanted to see.”

He spreads his hands as much as he can, like a quiet _well, here I am._ Her lips twitch upwards into a small smile.

Damian comes to a stop just in sight, arms crossed. “Cassandra. I recall telling you to remain in the Manor.”

Cassandra shrugs up one shoulder and makes absolutely no move to leave.

Dick peeks out at Tim from around the shield of Damian’s body. Damian scowls. “Richard. Return upstairs.”

“Cass gets to stay,” Dick objects, and Tim – Tim c _racks_ , lets go of the high-pitched giggle that’s been rolling over and over and over in his head at how badly their ridiculous display of normality fits on this family.

“All of you. Out.” The low rumble comes from the shadows, and is immediately followed by a chorus of _Bruce please_ ’s and _Father, I have every right to be present_ ’s. Cass doesn’t say anything, just gives Tim one last thoughtful look like he’s a puzzle she’s trying to solve before she stands and leaves, dragging Dick – still protesting – with her. Damian follows a moment later with an irritated _tt._

“The gun,” Bruce says. “Where is it?”

The giggles die out, and Tim can breathe again. “Be more specific, B. Lots of those in the world.”

“You know which one.”

“Somewhere safe.” Tim tilts his head and smirks, just because it makes Bruce uncomfortable to see that grin. You could say he’s going through a rebellious phase. “It’s being used to protect your family now. It’s doing more good with me than it was lying around in a case.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches. “I taught you better than that.”

“I picked up a few things since then.”

After a moment, Bruce comes closer and digs a pair of tweezers out of the medical equipment. Neither of them says anything while he digs the broken-off needle out of Tim’s arm, a truce of silence that lasts exactly up until Bruce starts setting up for a new IV line.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Tim says, voice calm. Pleasant, even.

“It’s for your own good, Tim.”

“Learn to lie better,” he spits out. “It’s for _your_ own good. Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me, B.”

“You’re not well,” Bruce says.

Tim snorts. “God, seriously? _I fucking know._ I’m crazy, Bruce, I’m not _stupid_.”

Bruce lets out a sigh, sets the IV aside and sits down on the edge of the bed heavily. “I’m sorry, Tim.”

“Gotta be a little more specific there, B.”

“I failed you.” Bruce’s hand rests against one of Tim’s. “I didn’t teach you enough. I didn’t find you in time. I should have done better by you.”

“Yeah. You should have.” Tim looks down at the hand covering his. Once upon a time, it would have been a comfort. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

“For telling a member of the League of Assassins how to access the Cave in case of emergency.” Bruce finishes keeling over by the end of his sentence – not badly hurt, if Tim’s any judge, just suddenly, efficiently rendered unconscious. Tim smiles. “Hi, Pru.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific chapter content warnings: suicidal thoughts, unwanted sexual contact, reference to past sexual activities with a character who was incapable of consent. I think that's it?

Escaping from anywhere, even the Batcave, is much easier when you’re personally familiar with the location and have access to files detailing all the main points of its security upgrades. Tim’s still kind of woozy when Pru frees him, but there’s a ticking clock in the back of his head calculating how long until one of the family upstairs ventures back down to check on them. The entrance he gave her is only good for one way; he has to manually disable the security measures for their escape route. Once they’ve cleared the Cave’s exit, Pru drags him to where she stashed a car, shoves him in it and starts driving.

After a few minutes pass without any Bat-sightings, she relaxes enough to start talking. “Ra’s wants to see you.”

He leans his forehead against the passenger-side window. It’s dark out. He wasn’t exactly paying attention to the time before Damian grabbed him, so he’s not sure how much he lost while he was unconscious. “Of course he does.”

She taps her fingers against the steering wheel. “He’s in town.”

Tim breathes out. “Of course he is.” Because why would the Demon’s Head have anything better to do than stop in Gotham City just for the hell of it?

“I’m bringing you to him.”

Yeah. He’d _guessed_. “You do you, Pru,” he says, and that gets a little twitch of a smile out of her, even if she would never admit it. She doesn’t feel the need to say anything else for the rest of the drive, so he leaves it at that.

Ra’s has holdings in Gotham like he has holdings pretty much everywhere else in the world, and the building Pru drops him off at is Ra’s’ typical blend of elegant and ostentatious. Tim’s not ready for this meeting, but he wasn’t ready for dealing with the Bats, either, and fate has apparently decided he can only avoid one or the other. He’s ushered inside and through the building by a League member who looks vaguely familiar. He could try to figure out if it’s because he’s fought her before or for some other reason, but why bother when she leaves as soon as she’s shut him into a room with Ra's?

“Timothy.” Ra’s’ voice is a purr, rich and self-satisfied in a way that crawls under Tim’s skin.

“Ra’s. What brings you to Gotham?” Tim says. Bland and pleasant seems like as good a strategy for this conversation as any.

Ra’s just smiles, amused, like he knows what Tim was thinking and considers it delightfully absurd. “How is your little project faring?”

“It’s fine,” Tim says, voice flat.

“I had hoped you would have concluded your business and returned to the League by now.”

“That’s nice. What makes you think I’m coming back?” Before Ra’s can respond, Tim spits out, “I don’t _owe_ you, Ra’s.”

Ra’s sweeps his gaze over Tim pointedly.

“I didn’t _ask_ you to bring me back to life. I didn’t _ask_ you to try to train me. I didn’t _ask_ you to try to make me a part of the League.”

“Nonetheless – “

“Nonetheless, go _fuck yourself – “_

Ra’s snaps forward, and Tim moves to block, but he’s not fast enough. Ra’s pins Tim’s arms behind his back and digs an elbow into his vertebrae painfully, forcing him off-balance.

“Do not mistake my indulgence, Timothy,” Ra’s says, calm and controlled and so close to Tim’s ear that he can feel the breath on his skin. “I allow you to pursue this interest. Whether it ends because you complete your work or because I decide it has gone long enough, you will be returning at its finish.”

Tim chokes on a laugh, acidic like bile coming up his throat. Ra’s tightens his grip, twisting Tim’s arms even further upwards to put an edge of extra pain into an already uncomfortable hold.

“I will bring you back myself, if necessary. Do you understand?”

He doesn’t _owe_ Ra’s. But Ra’s holds pieces of him, things Tim had been too fucked up and confused and _lost_ to realize he was giving up. “I understand,” he grits out, but Ra’s doesn’t loosen his grip any until Tim stops fighting, lets himself go slack in Ra’s’ hold.

Ra’s lets Tim’s arms return to his sides, but he keeps a proprietary hand on the back of Tim’s neck. A reminder. “I am pleased with your progress,” he says, like this is just another conversation reviewing his training with the League. “Your focus has improved.”

“You mean I’m less batshit crazy? Give me a few hours, I’m sure I can muster up a relapse for you.”

Ra’s keeps going, talking like he didn’t hear anything: “Taking the gun that killed the Detective’s parents and using it to carry out your executions was an elegant touch.”

“Ra’s.” His jaw clenches. “Haven’t you made your point already?”

“Perhaps.” After a moment, Ra’s’ hand cradles Tim’s face. “I should let you rest. I’m sure it’s been a trying day for you.” His head dips in a graceful arc to catch Tim’s lips in a kiss. Tim’s hand grasps at Ra’s’ shirt reflexively, and Ra’s’ mouth curves upwards into a pleased smile, an _owning_ smile.

When Ra’s finally lets him go, Tim feels light-headed and sort of wants to throw up.

“Pru will no doubt be pleased to accompany you to the base of your choice. We’ll speak again soon,” Ra’s says. Tim knows a dismissal when he hears one, so he turns on his heel and escapes the room as fast as humanly possible.

 

Pru drops him off at one of the few safehouses he’s sure hasn’t been compromised by the Bats. He spends a couple minutes methodically checking locks and security footage. Once he’s satisfied the place is about as secure as he can get it, he heads to the bathroom.

There’s a mirror in this room, old and kind of dirty, that was already in place when he acquired the property. He shatters it with one calculated strike. The biggest shard lies in the sink, showing him a reflection of his face, _mocking_ him. The reflection of someone who slashed his own face open because he couldn’t stand to look at it, who slept with the fucking _Demon’s Head_ because he felt like he was crawling out of his own skin and he would have done anything to make it _stop_. That stupid, fucking _idiot_ who thought he’d somehow walked away from the League of Assassins free and clear just because he’d walked away.

He picks up one of the sharper shards and thinks about just slicing his veins open, putting himself and the rest of the world out of their misery, but Ra’s has brought him back from death before. (No. if he wanted to do that, he’d need to find something that wouldn’t leave enough pieces of his body lying around to be put back together in a Lazarus Pit – )

No. Not right now. He has a _list_ of Batman’s – of _Gotham’s_ greatest threats, the ones that need to be put down for society’s sake, painstakingly ordered and calculated so that the consequences of each death help set up the circumstances for the next. The next name on the list wasn’t due to die for another couple days, but under the circumstances, he can step up the schedule a little. He can put together a decent arsenal from what he has here and pick up the Wayne gun on the way.

He’s had a really fucking shitty excuse for a day. Time to do some _good_.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are interested in my fics and want more, I have an account at syntactition.tumblr.com where I have bits of stories that are currently in the works and other ficlets and stories that haven't made their way to AO3.


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